Part 34 (1/2)

More convincing, that way. He is staying dangerous.

Good.

And Blank Frank does, in fact, feel better.

Light springs, hard reddish-white now, behind him as he makes his exit and locks the door of Un/Dead. The night is cool by contrast, near foggy. Condensation mists the plasma globe as he strolls away, pausing once beneath a streetlamp to appreciate the ring on his little finger. He doesn't need to eat, to sleep.

Uninjured by the cataclysm, the Monster stumbles, grunting, away from the village and into the forest . . .

But this time, thinks Blank Frank, the old Monster knows where he's going.

He'll miss Mich.e.l.le and the rest of the club staff. But he must move on, because he is not like them. He has all the time he'll ever need, and friends who will be around forever . . .

Un/Dead blazes. The night swallows him.

Blank Frank likes the power.

JOYCE CAROL OATES.

Joyce Carol Oates was born in Millerport, New York, in 1938. She received a B.A. in English from Syracuse University and an M.A. from the University of Wisconsin. In 1962 she married Raymond J. Smith, settling in Detroit. There she wrote the novel them them (1969), a searing study of the race riots plaguing the city. Between 1968 and 1978, Oates taught at the University of Windsor in Canada; from 1978 onward, she has taught creative writing at Princeton University, where she is now the Roger S. Berlind Distinguished Professor of the Humanities. Oates, one of the most prolific of contemporary American writers, has received many awards for her work, including the National Book Award and the Commonwealth Award for Distinguished Service in Literature. (1969), a searing study of the race riots plaguing the city. Between 1968 and 1978, Oates taught at the University of Windsor in Canada; from 1978 onward, she has taught creative writing at Princeton University, where she is now the Roger S. Berlind Distinguished Professor of the Humanities. Oates, one of the most prolific of contemporary American writers, has received many awards for her work, including the National Book Award and the Commonwealth Award for Distinguished Service in Literature.

The supernatural has been a pervasive theme in much of Oates's work as novelist and short story writer. A series of four novels, Bellefleur Bellefleur (1980), (1980), A Bloodsmoor Romance A Bloodsmoor Romance (1982), (1982), Mysteries of Winterthurn Mysteries of Winterthurn (1984), and (1984), and My Heart Laid Bare My Heart Laid Bare (1998), applies the Gothic mode to American history and culture. (1998), applies the Gothic mode to American history and culture. Bellefleur Bellefleur features seven generations of grotesque characters, including a vampire, a mad scientist, and a ma.s.s murderer, dwelling in a haunted mansion. Much of Oates's horror work is nonsupernatural, as in the novel features seven generations of grotesque characters, including a vampire, a mad scientist, and a ma.s.s murderer, dwelling in a haunted mansion. Much of Oates's horror work is nonsupernatural, as in the novel Black Water Black Water (1992), the short novel (1992), the short novel Beasts Beasts (2001), and the novel (2001), and the novel The Tattooed Girl The Tattooed Girl (2003). (2003).

Oates has also utilized supernatural horror in many of her short stories. Haunted: Tales of the Grotesque Haunted: Tales of the Grotesque (1994) contains the highest proportion of horror tales, but several of her other collections include one or more specimens. Oates has compiled the anthology (1994) contains the highest proportion of horror tales, but several of her other collections include one or more specimens. Oates has compiled the anthology American Gothic Tales American Gothic Tales (1996), the introduction to which elucidates her theory of supernatural writing. She has also edited (1996), the introduction to which elucidates her theory of supernatural writing. She has also edited Tales of H. P. Lovecraft Tales of H. P. Lovecraft (1997). (1997).

”Demon,” a short story first published in the small-press chap-book Demon and Other Tales Demon and Other Tales (1996), is a gripping and ambiguous horror tale in which the supernatural may or may not come into play. (1996), is a gripping and ambiguous horror tale in which the supernatural may or may not come into play.

DEMON.

Demon-child. Kicked in the womb so his mother doubled over in pain. Nursing tugged and tore at her young b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Wailed through the night. Puked, shat. Refused to eat. No he was loving, mad with love. No he was loving, mad with love. Of Mama. (Though fearful of Da.) Curling burrowing pus.h.i.+ng his head into Mama's arms, against Mama's warm fleshy body. Starving for love, food. Starving for what he could not know yet to name: Of Mama. (Though fearful of Da.) Curling burrowing pus.h.i.+ng his head into Mama's arms, against Mama's warm fleshy body. Starving for love, food. Starving for what he could not know yet to name: G.o.d's grace, salvation. G.o.d's grace, salvation.

Sign of Satan: flamey-red ugly-pimply birthmark snake-shaped. On his underjaw, coiled below his ear. Almost you can't see it. A little boy he's teased by neighbor girls, hulking, big girls with t.i.tties and laughing-wet eyes. Demon! demon! Lookit, sign of the demon! Demon! demon! Lookit, sign of the demon!

Those years pa.s.sing in a fever-dream. Or maybe never pa.s.sed. Mama prayed over him, hugged and slapped. Shook his skinny shoulders so his head flew. The minister prayed over him Deliver us from evil Deliver us from evil and he was good, he and he was good, he was was delivered from evil. Except at school his eyes misting over, couldn't see the blackboard. Sullen and nasty-mouthed the teacher called him. Not like the other children. delivered from evil. Except at school his eyes misting over, couldn't see the blackboard. Sullen and nasty-mouthed the teacher called him. Not like the other children.

If not like the other children, the other children, then like then like who? what? who? what?

Those years. As in a stalled city bus, exhaust pouring out the rear. The stink of it everywhere. Your hair, eyes. Clothes. Same view through the same fly-specked windows. Year after year the battered-tin diner, the vacant lot high with weeds and rubble and the path worn through it slantwise where children ran shouting above the river. Broken pavement littered like confetti from a parade long past.

Or maybe it was the edge of something vast, infinite. You could never come to the end of. Wavering and blinding in blasts of light. Desert, Desert, maybe. maybe. Red Desert Red Desert where demons dance, swirl in the hot winds. Never seen a where demons dance, swirl in the hot winds. Never seen a desert desert except pictures, a name on a map. And in his head. except pictures, a name on a map. And in his head.

Demon-child they whispered of him. But no, he was loving, mad with love. Too small, too short. Stunted legs. His head too big for his spindly shoulders. His strange waxy-pale moon-shaped face, almond eyes beautiful in shadowed sockets, small wet mouth perpetually sucking inward. As if to keep the bad words, words of filth and d.a.m.nation, safely inside.

The sign of Satan coiled on his underjaw began to fade. Like his adolescent skin eruptions. Blood drawn gradually back into tissue, capillaries.

Not a demon-child but a pure good anxious loving child someone betrayed by squeezing him from her womb before he was ready.

Not a demon-child but for years he rode wild thunderous razor-hooved black stallions by night and by day. Furious galloping on sidewalks, in asphalt playgrounds. Through the school corridors trampling all in his way. Furious tearing hooves, froth-flecked nostrils, bared teeth. G.o.d's wrath, the black stallion rearing, whinnying. I destroy all in my path. Beware! I destroy all in my path. Beware!

Not a demon-child but he'd torched the school, rows of stores, woodframe houses in the neighborhood. How many times the smelly bed where Mama and Da hid from him. And no one knew.

This January morning bright and windy and he's staring at the face floating in a mirror. Dirty mirror in a public lavatory, Trailways Bus Station. Where at last the demon has been released. For it is the New Year. The s.h.i.+fting of the earth's axis. For to be away from what is familiar, like walking on a sharp-slanted floor, allows something other something other in. Or the in. Or the something other something other has been inside you all along and until now you do not know. has been inside you all along and until now you do not know.

In his right eyeball a speck of dirt? dust? blood?

Scared, he knows right away. Knows even before he sees: sign of Satan. In the yellowish-white of his eyeball. Not the coiled little snake but the five-sided star: pentagram. pentagram.

He knows, he's been warned. Five-sided star: pentagram. pentagram.

It's there, in his eye. Tries to rub it out with his fist.

Backs away terrified and gagging and he's running out of the fluorescent-bright lavatory and through the bus station where eyes trail after him curious, bemused, pitying, annoyed. He's a familiar sight here though no one knows his name. Runs home, about three miles. His mother knows there's trouble, has he lied about taking his medicine? hiding the pill under his tongue? Yes but G.o.d knows you can't oversee every minute with one like him. Yes but your love wears thin like the lead backing of a cheap mirror corroding the gla.s.s. Yes but you have prayed, you have prayed and prayed and cursed the words echoing not upward to G.o.d but downward as in an empty well.

Twenty-six years old, shaved head glinting blue. Luminous s.h.i.+ning eyes women in the street call beautiful. In the neighborhood he's known by his first name. Sweet guy but strange, excitable. A habit of twitching his shoulders like he's shrugging free of somebody's grip.

Fast as you run somebody runs faster!

In the house that's a semi-detached rowhouse on Mill Street he's not listening to his angry mother asking why is he home so early, has a job in a building supply yard so why isn't he there? Pushes past the old woman and into the bathroom, shuts the door and there in the mirror oh G.o.d it's there: the five-sided star, pentagram. pentagram. Sign of Satan. Embedded deep in his right eyeball, just below the dilated iris. Sign of Satan. Embedded deep in his right eyeball, just below the dilated iris.

No! no! G.o.d help!

Goes wild rubs with both fists, pokes with fingers. He's weeping, shouting. Beats at himself, fists and nails. His sister now pounding on the door what is it? what's wrong? and Mama's voice loud and frightened. It's happened, It's happened, he thinks. His first clear thought. he thinks. His first clear thought. Happened. Happened. Like a stone sinking so calm. Because hasn't he always known the prayers did no good, on your knees bowing your head inviting Jesus into your heart does no good. The sign of the demon would return, absorbed into his blood but must one day re-emerge. Like a stone sinking so calm. Because hasn't he always known the prayers did no good, on your knees bowing your head inviting Jesus into your heart does no good. The sign of the demon would return, absorbed into his blood but must one day re-emerge.

Pushes past the women and in the kitchen paws through the drawer scattering cutlery that falls to the floor, bounces and clatters and there's the big carving knife in his hand, his hand shuts about it like fate. Pushes past the women now in reverse where they've followed him into the kitchen knocks his one-hundred-eighty-pound older sister aside with his elbow as lightly as he lifts bags of gravel, armloads of bricks. Hasn't he prayed Our Father to be a machine many times. A machine does not feel, a machine does not think. A machine does not hurt. A machine does not starve for love. A machine does not starve for what it does not know to name: salvation. salvation.

Back then inside the bathroom, slamming the door against the screaming women, and locking it. Gibbering to himself, Away Satan! Away Satan! G.o.d help! Away Satan! Away Satan! G.o.d help! With a hand strangely steely as if practiced wielding the point of the knife, boldly inserting and twisting into the accursed eyeball. And no pain-only a burning cleansing roaring sensation as of a blast of fire. Out pops the eyeball, and out the sign of Satan. But connected by tissue, nerves. It's elastic so he's pulling, fingers now slippery-excited with blood. He's sawing with the sharp blade of the steak knife. Cuts the eyeball free, like Mama squeezing baby out of her belly into this pig trough of sin and filth, and no turning back till Jesus calls you home. With a hand strangely steely as if practiced wielding the point of the knife, boldly inserting and twisting into the accursed eyeball. And no pain-only a burning cleansing roaring sensation as of a blast of fire. Out pops the eyeball, and out the sign of Satan. But connected by tissue, nerves. It's elastic so he's pulling, fingers now slippery-excited with blood. He's sawing with the sharp blade of the steak knife. Cuts the eyeball free, like Mama squeezing baby out of her belly into this pig trough of sin and filth, and no turning back till Jesus calls you home.

He drops the eyeball into the toilet, flushes the toilet fast.

Before Satan can intervene.

One of those antiquated toilets where water swirls about the stained bowl, wheezes and yammers to itself, sighs, grumbles, finally swallows like it's doing you a favor. And the sign of the demon is gone.

One eyesocket empty and fresh-bleeding he's on his knees praying Thank you G.o.d! thank you G.o.d! Thank you G.o.d! thank you G.o.d! weeping as angels in radiant garments with faces of blinding brightness reach down to embrace him not minding his red-slippery mask of a face. Now he's one of them himself, now he will float into the sky where, some wind-bl.u.s.tery January morning, you'll see him, or a face like his, in a furious cloud. weeping as angels in radiant garments with faces of blinding brightness reach down to embrace him not minding his red-slippery mask of a face. Now he's one of them himself, now he will float into the sky where, some wind-bl.u.s.tery January morning, you'll see him, or a face like his, in a furious cloud.

CAITLIN R. KIERNAN.

Caitlin Rebekah Kiernan was born in 1964 in Skerries, Ireland, but came to the United States as a child, shortly after the death of her father. Her family lived in several locales in the South before settling in Birmingham, Alabama; in spite of her birth in Ireland, Kiernan now identifies herself as a Southern author and draws upon the heritage of Southern culture in much of her work. After receiving a degree in vertebrate paleontology from the University of Colorado, Kiernan returned to Birmingham to work at the Red Mountain Museum. She has published several scientific papers in such journals as the Journal of Paleontology Journal of Paleontology and the and the Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, Journal of Vertebrate Paleontology, and her scientific background is an essential component in several of her novels and tales. and her scientific background is an essential component in several of her novels and tales.

Kiernan began publis.h.i.+ng short stories in the 1990s, and they have now been gathered into five volumes: Candles for Elizabeth Candles for Elizabeth (1998), (1998), Tales of Pain and Wonder Tales of Pain and Wonder (2000), (2000), Wrong Things Wrong Things (2001; with Poppy Z. Brite), (2001; with Poppy Z. Brite), From Weird and Distant Sh.o.r.es From Weird and Distant Sh.o.r.es (2002), and (2002), and To Charles Fort, with Love To Charles Fort, with Love (2005). Her work came to the attention of Neil Gaiman, who commissioned her to do much of the writing for (2005). Her work came to the attention of Neil Gaiman, who commissioned her to do much of the writing for The Dreaming, The Dreaming, a successor to Gaiman's successful graphic novel a successor to Gaiman's successful graphic novel The Sandman; The Sandman; Kiernan scripted Kiernan scripted The Dreaming The Dreaming from 1997 to 2001. Her first novel, from 1997 to 2001. Her first novel, Silk Silk (1998), fuses supernatural and psychological horror in its account of the demons that emerge from a young woman's memories of her father's abusive treatment of her; it won the International Horror Guild award for best first novel. (1998), fuses supernatural and psychological horror in its account of the demons that emerge from a young woman's memories of her father's abusive treatment of her; it won the International Horror Guild award for best first novel. Threshold Threshold (2001), a cosmic novel that draws upon (2001), a cosmic novel that draws upon Beowulf, Beowulf, Algernon Blackwood, and others, won the IHG award for best novel. Algernon Blackwood, and others, won the IHG award for best novel. Low Red Moon Low Red Moon (2003) is another cosmic novel; (2003) is another cosmic novel; The Five of Cups The Five of Cups (2003) is a vampire novel; (2003) is a vampire novel; Murder of Angels Murder of Angels (2004) is a sequel to (2004) is a sequel to Silk, Silk, while while The Dry Salvages The Dry Salvages (2004) is a dark science fiction novel. (2004) is a dark science fiction novel. Alabaster Alabaster (2006) is her latest story collection. (2006) is her latest story collection.

”In the Water Works (Birmingham, Alabama 1888),” first published in Tales of Pain and Wonder, Tales of Pain and Wonder, effectively utilizes both Kiernan's knowledge of science and her sense of place in its evocative account of an ambiguous monster lurking in a tunnel in Birmingham. effectively utilizes both Kiernan's knowledge of science and her sense of place in its evocative account of an ambiguous monster lurking in a tunnel in Birmingham.